


Just One of Those Days

by emerald939



Category: Queer As Folk - Fandom
Genre: Comfort/Romance, Hurt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-02-01
Updated: 2011-02-01
Packaged: 2017-10-17 01:19:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,684
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/171427
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/emerald939/pseuds/emerald939
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There are just those days, when sometimes you need something that only a certain someone can give you...</p>
            </blockquote>





	Just One of Those Days

**Author's Note:**

> Note: Hi everyone, just wanted to say here that I'm leaving my original notes in the fanfic that I'm posting on the archive. Just in case they seem a little incongrous. Happy reading!

Note: There are so many thoughts running through my head. Who knows the dangerous mine field that could come out of this outpouring of ideas, the first to be posted in…years now, wow where did the time go? Thanks to everyone who has put me on their watch lists and alerts even after such a long absence. I love you all, and I hope you like this new one!

Just One of Those Days

I look out the window and on to the street below. The harsh yellow streetlamp light burns an image into my retinas. Turning to the left, I try and blink the spots out of my eyes. For a moment I am blind. Carefully feeling my way around the walls, I get up from the window ledge and head into the kitchen, away from the light.

Forget about the streetlamps, any type of light has been more than I can handle at the moment. I feel like there is nothing at all in my mind. I am so jumbled up that just thinking is an effort of massive proportions.

It's just one of those days.

I've been a little bitch lately. I'm aware of this more than I could ever let people know. The fools have been letting me get away with murder, those that I can stand to let in my presence.

There is this burning anger inside of my chest that I am just unable to be rid of. Is there any way to get rid of it? Who knows? Who cares might be the better question to ask.

I feel a blast of cold air across my burning hot face. Blinking the remaining yellow spots out of my eyes, I can see that I have made my way, not only to the kitchen, but to the fridge as well. Slowly and methodically I close the door, leaving my body burning up in a sudden blast of heat. I glance at the clock. 6:45 p.m. I read across the blood like letters of the alarm clock. Quick flash of dizziness, I see a bat out of the corner of my eye.

Spinning quicker than I have moved all day I grab onto the countertop breathing heavily, about to be thrown into an asthma attack. I hear the heavy loft door glide open and footsteps pad across the hardwood floors as I try to control my breathing. As that becomes more and more of an issue I duck behind the breakfast nook.

It's just one of those days.

I realize, of course, in some distant manner just how irrational this is.

And to an outsider I'm sure that I would come across as nothing more than an escaped mental patient, or at least someone who should be heavily medicated.

While they would be right about the medication, they are not for the reasons one would think.

They are to stop things like this from occurring, which would be more helpful if I actually remembered to take the little pills.

These thoughts have been running quickly through my head in the last minute and a half while I tried to force my compromised lungs to cooperate. I wish that I could say the distraction technique worked. Unfortunately, no. I'm still laying on a floor wishing desperately that I had waited just an hour to have my daily freak out flashback. At least then I could have had some quality time with…. "JUSTIN!"

No not me, Brian. Oh wait, that would be who just yelled my name. Right, that would be why I wanted to wait a while, this new ad agency is taking up so much of his time, he shouldn't have to deal with this first thing. Brian was home, just in time to find his live-in disaster barely able to function once again.

I try to pull myself up from the floor, grabbing onto a chair leg and speaking in a sotto voice.

"Hi honey how was your day?" I whisper in between wheezes.

"Jesus-fucking Christ. What the hell were you doing?" Brian yells out, the echo rebounding in surround sound across the loft.

"Oh, just having a party. Want to join?" I try to joke convincingly as he rubs my back and puts my head between my knees. (For once not between his own, ha)

Rubbing a hand over his tired face, Brian stays sitting without replying.

About what seems a half hour later, I force myself to look at that blood red clock again. Once I see that only 10 minutes have past, I quickly glance away as I try not to wince at the color, or trigger another attack. As Brian sees this movement, he slowly rises, pulling me off the floor as well. Sitting me down on the couch he meanders over to the fridge and pulls out a fancy blue bottle of water and grabs a prescription bottle out of a cupboard.

Quicker now, he starts walking over to the couch, flipping the clock over so its facing the wall as he passes.

I do love how he takes care of me in the most subtle ways.

He hands me the water and pills as his menacing glare demands that I take them and not try to squirm out of it.

And then sometimes, I really don't.

As soon as I swallow, something besides his cock for once, we sit on the couch in peaceful silence. I appreciate how he refuses to freak out beyond the necessary initial reaction.

It makes our life so much easier.

Silently, he moves over to the television. I see his face grimace as he realizes that in all the commotion he never removed his shoes. If there is one thing set in stone about the character of Brian-Fucking-Kinney its that he is unable to resist the lure of bare feet in his own home. A strange characteristic, but fitting for a man who grew up with that bitch Joan for a mother. If I had to deal with restrictions like he did, I wouldn't want any other binds put on me when under my own volition

After throwing the shows into the bedroom, by which I mean carefully placing each show in its assigned place in the master closet, Brian comes back over and takes out two movies from the DVD chest.

I have just been silently watching and observing his movements around the loft for who knows how long; reveling in the comfortable silence. With anyone else I feel awkward, like I NEED to make conversation, be the Sunshine that everyone knows, and loves when convenient for them.

With Brian…. I can be silent. These times are rare now a days, but he can always tell when I fall into that space where words just aren't there. Those days when I need the quiet in order to recharge and face life outside the loft again. It's a remainder from that time just after the bashing. I have made tremendous strides in facing up to my demons post coma and rehabilitation. However, there still many battles to be fought when it comes to resuming life exactly as it used to be. I don't know if it will ever be possible.

I have a feeling that I will always need these days. Ethan never got it. He always needed to have conversation, noise everywhere. I tried; hard enough sometimes that I pissed off most other people in my life, but it's just something that I need every now and then in order to get through life.

Brian understands that, because he understands me. It was always an indication that Ethan and I wouldn't work out.

He just didn't understand the quiet.

As Brian stands there, still patiently holding A Streetcar Named Desire, and A Yellow Submarine, one in each hand I just stare. He looks back at me, an eyebrow raised, tongue in cheek. Still not saying anything, expressing it all in looks. (You know, I used to think he was telepathic? Back in my stacker days, it was probably all that kept me from doing something really crazy.)

As I continue to stare, possibly blankly but who knows what my face looks like to him on these days, he gently rolls his eyes and comes over to the couch where I am curled into a ball.

"Sonny boy….you in there?" he whispers, as quiet as a mouse. "Pick a fucking movie already would you?"

I suddenly beam, putting the full force of the gale of emotion s that has been swirling inside me today into it, and point at Streetcar. He looks slightly taken aback, but willing to just go with the flow at this point.

It's just one of those days.

He turns to throw the movie into the DVD player; looking smug (it's one of his favorites). I wait as patiently as I can, which is not very, for him to slide back onto the sofa. As soon as he is situated he looks to the left, raises an eyebrow again. That's my signal. I flop my head onto his lap, and tug the blanket back around my shoulder. It's the blue fuzzy one that we keep in the closet, especially for these situations.

I stare blankly into space and hear the rumbling trains coming out of the surround sound speakers as the movie starts.

His graceful hands slowly stroke my hair in a settling pattern. I close my eyes for a moment, and just take in the silence and the comfort. It removes any images in my head that should not hold any power over me anymore, but still do anyway.

The soft light of the TV drowns out those yellow and red harsh monstrosities that have no place in our space today. The world settles into a certain type of quiet.

Because it's just one of those days.

A/N: Feedback would be greatly appreciated, as I have not written anything for an extremely long time and have apparently become one of those needy writers who beg for reviews. ^_^


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